


Firsts

by eriathiel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eriathiel/pseuds/eriathiel
Summary: A series of firsts in the relationship between Cullen Rutherford and Evelyn Trevelyan as their relationship evolves.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 17





	1. Sight

The first time Cullen saw Evelyn Trevelyan, he knew she’d be trouble. Well, the first time he saw her awake, anyway. All right, the suspicion did creep in the first time he  _ ever  _ saw her, despite the fact that she’d been unconscious, but that was little to do with her appearance, and more to do with the circumstances under which she’d been found. Under different ones, he wouldn’t have had the same suspicions. In fact, when he  _ did  _ see her after hearing all of the stories of how she’d stepped out of the fade, he was distinctly...underwhelmed. She was just a woman. Bloodied and dishevelled, and frightfully pale beneath the muck, but a woman no less. She had no horns, no claws, no demonic aura. Had he passed her elsewhere, he’d have even offered aid - assuming her to be an everyday traveller who fell foul of bandits...were it not, of course, for the glowing green mark on her hand. 

The first time he saw her awake, though, was when he began to get the impression that maybe she wasn’t ordinary after all. She’d just returned to Haven (unshackled, for the first time) with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas in tow, wearing ill-fitting armour and carrying a staff that looked like it had seen better days. The lack of hostility towards her on Cassandra’s part put him more at ease, but the staff did not. A mage. He should have known. Who else would find themselves mixed up in all of this? While that alone might have once been enough grounds for him to go on being suspicious of her though, it wasn’t anymore. 

No, what also caught his attention was how wild she looked. Positively feral, really. Her long dark hair was barely contained by the thick plait it had been in last time he saw her, with strands falling about and stuck to her face in stark contrast to the pale white of her skin. He realised then that the pallour in her unconsciousness hadn’t solely been caused by whatever ailed her, but he supposed it made sense...there wasn’t much opportunity to tan in the Circles. While she seemed to be listening intently to whatever Solas was saying - about the mark on her hand, Cullen guessed, judging by the elf’s gestures towards it - her eyes flitted about their surroundings non-stop. They were bright, with something wild in them and they seemed to see  _ everything _ . Looking for threats? Who could blame her. Less than twenty-four hours ago they’d been accusing her of murdering the Divine. There was no malice in her eyes, nor on her face, he noted with some satisfaction...and plenty of relief. Not in the malevolent sense of the word that he’d expect of an enemy, but nor in a sort of detached, haughty way that would suggest that even if she wasn’t an enemy, she’d be no help at all. She was simply...observing. The way a wild feline might absorb its surroundings as it prowled, prepared for whatever threats might present themselves - and all but expecting those threats to appear. 

The green of her eyes rivalled that of the mark on her hand, and when they landed on him, Cullen realised he’d been caught scrutinising her. A moment of instinctive panic followed, soon to be overtaken by an uneasy, awkward wave of embarrassment. His hand flew to the back of his neck before he even fully realised. But he did not break the gaze...and nor did she. They considered one another for a few moments, Cullen largely trying to decide what to make of her, right up until she’d have to crane her neck to continue to look at him. It was then that it registered with him - the wariness on her face. Was she just as unsure of him as he was of her? So he made a last minute decision, and offered a small nod. 

Evelyn blinked, hesitated as if she wasn’t sure to react - like he’d just done something absolutely outlandish rather than offer a simple greeting - and then she returned it. And that was that. They looked in different directions, and the matter of this stranger with the glowing hand was shoved out of his mind in favour of organising their small, ragged band of troops (if they could even be called that) as best he could. The strange nagging feeling about her remained, but other matters took precedent - all he knew was that he’d have to make up his mind on her when they got a real chance to speak

* * *

The first time Evelyn Trevelyan saw the golden-haired ex-Templar, she wanted to groan and roll her eyes. That was just what she needed. Another brutish warrior who was more concerned with his looks than his brains - who would rather break down a door than pick its lock, and who thought mages were more akin to creatures than they were to people. She had no desire to trade one Circle for another, and found herself unwittingly inching just slightly closer to Solas as they walked. The years had taught her that for mages, safety lay in numbers. Sometimes not even then, but it was a small comfort - and if the elf noticed her move, he did not acknowledge it, not once faltering in explanations and theories that she only half understood. 

Cassandra had mentioned his former status as a Templar before Evelyn even clapped eyes on the man, but there probably wasn’t any need. Evelyn would have known it upon seeing him. She wasn’t sure how she knew it - only that it was a sort of after-shock from her time in the Circle. It was the same kind of internal instinct that had people taking a sudden step to the right just before a boulder fell and crushed the ground where they’d once stood. She looked at Cullen Rutherford, and she knew. And her heart sank. It was like she was waiting for him to storm over and give her grief for something entirely innocuous. That dread grew further when their eyes locked, and she could feel him taking measure of her. However, she refused to look away. 

Not in this world. Not anymore. Not after everything mages had fought for. There may have been days - months, years, decades - where shrinking away under the scrutiny of a Templar (for she didn’t believe anybody could be a former Templar any more than they could be a former dwarf) was a necessary evil. A survival instinct. These were not those days. She refused to honour them by pretending otherwise. 

There were plenty of things she expected in return from him when he realised she would not cower. Outrage, fury, offense...a certain amount of pearl-clutching. Maybe a curl of his scarred lip and a sneer. That was when he surprised her - and that in itself was a surprise, for few things caught her off-guard these days - when he seemed almost sheepish at being caught watching her, his hand flying to rub at the back of his neck. Then, he offered a nod. It wasn’t the warmest of greetings, but it was far warmer than whatever she expected. A moment passed, just long enough for her to dwell on her hesitation, and then she returned it. 

Refusing to cower to Templars was one thing, but not antagonising them without cause was just logical. And then they’d walked past him, and she went back to making whatever mental notes she could about her new surroundings. Hopefully that small gesture was a sign that whatever interactions she had with him wouldn’t be as unpleasant as she feared...even if she planned on minimising them as much as possible, regardless. 


	2. Talks

Perhaps she wasn’t trouble. Not in the way he’d anticipated, anyway. Mages and Templars would always have rocky relations, he accepted the reality of that. He even knew that there would be plenty - among both sides - who would never view him as a  _ former  _ Templar, even if he lived to an age that allowed him to say he’d left the order decades ago. Such a prospect was looking doubtful, given the state of the world, but he could dream. Accepting the reality of that, meant accepting stand-offish behaviour during even the most innocuous of interactions. Barbed words, resentful looks, the tensing of every muscle whenever he habitually rested his hand atop his sword. 

Whatever his opinions on mage freedom, they had suffered. He would not hold the symptoms of that suffering against them, so long as they stayed reasonable. It would be like one of them resenting him for his nightmares. All of them here - mage, Templar, and neither - had their own wounds and scars. The best they could do was try to avoid bleeding all over one another. 

But there was no antagonism from Evelyn. He wasn’t sure if he was being honest or just idealistic when he failed to detect too much resentment, either. Just...discomfort. She hid it well, masking it with disinterest for the most part, but it was there. In the way she didn’t look at him for too long when he spoke at the war table, seeming to suddenly find the map incredibly fascinating instead, only briefly meeting his eyes again when it came time to respond before looking away again as soon as she could. It didn’t matter how much cheer he tried to muster to his face - well, as much as he could without appearing entirely deranged - the result was the same. 

Despite how he understood it, he did feel uneasy about how uncomfortable he seemed to make her by merely existing. Time would remedy it, no doubt, but he only hoped that time would come soon. Especially as he watched while she flitted between everybody - her travelling companions and advisers both - laughing and joking with them easily, while still giving his tent an especially wide berth whenever she had cause to venture near it. It was on the third such occasion that he’d noticed this little habit that Cullen wondered if he ought to do something to help. A show of goodwill. Or at least an assurance that he wasn’t lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to smite her. It would make him feel better, and then the ball would be in her court. 

It couldn’t hurt. Or so he hoped, anyway.

* * *

It was the middle of the night before Evelyn crept out to the training grounds just outside of Haven’s gates. It was too crowded during the day, with soldiers constantly running drills or even a few of her travelling companions keeping themselves in fighting shape. Too many eyes to watch her potentially embarrass herself - although in her opinion there was no ‘potentially’ about it. Her fighting was clumsy. The sort of fighting style borne of necessity, really, rather than skill and technique, the same way someone who grew up on the streets might be able to handle themselves in a scrap, but could hardly fight a soldier in a one-on-one fight and hope to live. 

The Circle had always had a rather vested interest in making sure its mages weren’t good enough for any sort of serious fight. She could cake somebody in ice or send waves of fire at them all day, but her staff-work was shoddy at best. Even just watching Solas finish off the demons had made her own deficiencies painfully clear to her. And so she practised.

At first she’d done so in the privacy of her hut. Even having that much space to herself along with guaranteed privacy was something she was still adjusting to, and sleep often came easier on the road, in a tent with the others, than it did in a bed on her own. Then she finally acquired enough iron and a decent schematic to pass on to Harrit to fit a blade at the end of her staff, and continued practise in her hut seemed a bit too dangerous. She didn’t fancy explaining to Josephine why the bedding was torn and slashed. 

So Evelyn bade her time, spending her evening with her nose in a book (not one of Varric’s, to his teasingly-voiced disdain every time he saw her reading) until Haven fell quiet around her, and then she gave it another hour still - just to be safe. Then she crept through the dark and the snow to the training grounds. 

In the beginning, she felt ridiculous - swinging the staff around like she was some sort of child pretending to be a master in the art of the spear. She kept in mind, though, that she’d feel rather more ridiculous if there were witnesses. And that feeling like an idiot was a far sight better than dying because she was too embarrassed to put in the practise it would take to improve. She started by going through the movements she already knew - the ones required to cast spells, and were pure muscle memory by now. Then she tried to incorporate work with the blade into those movements, jabbing and swiping at the practise dummy before her.

It wasn’t something she took to naturally - every move with any kind of significant force behind it sent her off balance, side-stepping awkwardly so that she wouldn’t go flying face-first into the snow. It was the sort of mistep that would give the enemy an opening, to be sure, and it frustrated her to no end. She refused to be a liability throughout whatever they were going to face in the coming months - to fade-step away from any enemy that got close, and hope that they might charge at her newfound friends instead while she shot icicles at them. 

“Spread your legs.”

Evelyn whirled, staff raised and ready, only to see Commander Cullen standing a few feet away. She hadn’t heard his boots crunching in the snow above the sound of her own breathing, and her internal cursing.

“Excuse me?” She blinked. 

The man flushed scarlet, horror filling his face, one gloved hand splaying as if he might catch the words he’d just spoken and draw them back in “No, I didn’t mean - not _ that _ . Andraste preserve me, that came out wrong.”

His own horror diminished hers, and the subsequent scramble to clarify brought a begrudging smile to her face as she waited for him to collect himself, lowering her staff.

“ _ Widen  _ your  _ stance _ ,” he clarified.

He was clearly taking great pains to school his face into an expressionless mask, but his cheeks still flushed a pink that was obvious, even in the moonlight. Evelyn’s smile widened - both out of amusement, and a desire to put him at ease.

She’d been...awkward around the Commander, and she was aware of it. At first it was quite intentional. His presence spelled trouble, she just knew it. Leaving the Order did not mean leaving behind the ideals that it upheld - the beliefs that it perpetuated. If she lowered her guard around him, she’d have nobody to blame but herself if she then ended up surprised when he pointed the finger at her the moment something went wrong, much like Chancellor Roderick loved to do. 

Then their first war council passed without incident. Followed by a second, a third, a fourth, until she stopped keeping count of them entirely - and during each and every one, Cullen was nothing less than pleasant. Even when they disagreed, he was polite and cordial, despite any irritation that might’ve crept into his demeanour occasionally. And Evelyn began to wonder if maybe he wasn’t one of the few decent ones after all. But she continued to be awkward. Why? The answer was simple, and also very stupid. Habit. 

She’d poured so much effort and energy into avoiding him and keeping him at arm’s length, that suddenly ceasing to do so felt intimidating and strange. Like everybody would stare at her as if she’d grown a second head if she wished him a good morning or countered one of his dry jokes with one of her own. The dilemma and the discomfort was something she’d built up in her own head so much that in the end it was easier to just go on as she’d started. In truth, she couldn’t pretend that the motivation to do so wasn’t aided by a suspicion that lingered. Well, perhaps not so much suspicion as paranoia - paranoia rooted in experience, but likely paranoia no less. Within her dwelled a very real fear that the moment she dropped her guard would be the moment she’d regret it. And it wasn’t like she was being rude. She responded to him when he spoke to her, and greeted him when he greeted her, but she just...did her best to minimise those encounters. 

It had been a mistake to assume he’d be long asleep by now, she supposed. But he worked hard (whatever else she wondered about him, there was no denying that he gave his work his heart and soul), so she’d come to the conclusion that he dropped like a boulder into his cot each night and didn’t stir until morning came. Apparently not. 

He hovered there, a few feet away, clearly unsure whether he should leave or remain. The answer would depend on her, she suspected. She could either go on as usual and endure awkward silences and halting attempts at conversation...or she could listen to her gut, and get whatever awkwardness there was well and truly out the way. It would be a good opportunity to do so, too, considering the absence of Josephine and Leliana. Having an audience to the tension between herself and Cullen, which she was certain was fast becoming the elephant in the room, only made her feel more awkward about trying to remedy it.

So she shuffled her feet a few inches wider.

“Like this?” She raised her eyebrows at him, doing her best to keep the amused smile on her face.

Something in her response must’ve been right, for he relaxed - not much, but his shoulders lowered just marginally, the fur of his mantle bristling a little as he did. Or maybe it had caught a breeze and she was imagining it. But he returned her smile.

“A little wider - shoulder width apart,” he took a few steps closer “It’s all about your centre of gravity. It has to be just so; not too wide, not too close together.”

Evelyn gave a few practise swings, and found she wasn’t half as unsteady on her feet. Now it was her turn to blush. Something so simple. She should’ve known. How long had he been there? What other multitude of mistakes had he watched her make? It couldn’t have been a very inspiring sight, seeing the Herald of Andraste prove herself so utterly useless. He was being a far sight kinder with her than he was with his men, at least. Cullen inched slowly closer until he was just a little further back than he needed to be to avoid being whacked by her staff if something went awry. After a move or two, she shot a questioning look in his direction as if requesting guidance, and from thereon he offered it freely, relaxing further until he looked downright comfortable. 

It was difficult to tell how long they were there after a while - until the freezing night air no longer felt so cold, thanks to the sweat she’d built up, until her lungs burned with each breath and her limbs ached pleasantly, and until she no longer had to put quite so much effort into being normal with him. 

She could finally see some improvement after some time. It helped to know that it was real improvement, too. Alone, she was only guessing at what was correct and what was not, based entirely on how the movements felt and how much damage it did to the dummy before her. But she was no expect, and straw and burlap was not flesh. It didn’t help that the dummy didn’t move, of course, so there were no evasive manouvres or counter-attacks to consider. Cullen’s help was invaluable, and she was grateful to him for it. She was even more grateful for the skein of water he handed her when she took her third break.

“I’d advise you stop now, my lady. You’re getting tired, your movements clumsier. You’ll be doing more harm than good by now. Best to resume it tomorrow.”

“I haven’t been a lady since I was sent to the Circle,” she pointed out, but kept her voice kind and clear of any accusatory tones. 

“I, er, madam then? Miss? Ser?...Herald?”

Oh no, Evelyn made her newest realisation with a sinking feeling. He was  _ adorable. _

“Your majesty?” She teased, unable to help herself when she smiled kindly at his discomfort - it seemed he’d more than noticed her stand-offish attitude towards him, then “Evelyn will do when we’re not performing duties, Commander.”

“Cullen, then,” he corrected.

“Cullen,” she amended. 

Commander  _ Cullen _ rubbed the back of his neck as he smiled a little, the scar on his upper lip giving the appearance that it was tugging it upwards. Evelyn couldn’t help but think to herself that maybe her first impression of him had been wrong - maybe he really didn’t realise how handsome he was. She didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d be trouble in the future, though. Perhaps just not in the way she first thought. 

“I do believe this is the most we’ve spoken since your arrival at Haven,” he said, an edge of caution in his voice.

“I…” she trailed off with a wince “...can be rather unapproachable at times. I’m sorry if it felt more personal than it was. Something I’ll need to improve at, I suspect.”

“Not at all,” he shook his head “I got the impression that you were somewhat wary of me…”

Maker, he’d impress Josephine herself with his diplomatic choice of words.

“...but from what I understand of your past, I always assumed you had good reason to be. I did hope it reflected more on the Templars you’d known in the past than it did on me personally.”

“It does - it _did_.”

“Well...good,” he nodded “Not that the ones you’d met in the past were unpleasant but-”

“I understand,” she smiled a little.

It was strange, seeing Cullen like this. In the war councils he was so sure of himself. So confident. Was it shedding the skin of the Commander, however momentarily, that made him like this? Or was it her herself? As she’d just told him, she was well aware of how unapproachable she could be at times. It was just a shame that she wasn’t equally aware of how to tear down that wall once she’d built it up. The endearing quality of his unsurety was sure to help, though. 

“If you have need of combat training, I could help.”

His confidence grew as the conversation moved back into territory that was inarguably his, his voice gaining the sort of underlying fierceness that it had in the war room within the Chantry. 

“You know how to fight with a staff?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I know how to fight with a spear, if need be - they’re rather similar,” he shrugged.

“And you have the time?” 

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Helping out as a one-off isn’t the same as dedicating a number of nights to fixing my incompetence.”

Her body temperature was beginning to drop now that the training was over and done with, her heartbeat slowing and the sweat she’d worked up cooling in the fine layer it had spread across her body. She soon found herself really feeling the cool, resisting the urge to shudder or wrap her arms around herself. Her bed and the warm glow of the fire within her cabin were both beginning to call her name. 

“You’re far from incompetent,” he didn’t say it like he was flattering her, just like he was stating a fact - somehow that made it feel all the more complimentary “I wouldn’t offer the time if I didn’t have it - and there are plenty who would argue that making sure the Herald can defend herself adequately is hardly a waste of my time.”

Evelyn weighed up his argument, shifting from one foot to the other and ignoring how her legs ached tiredly. 

“It shouldn’t take much time - I can show you the moves to practise, which you’ll be able to do on your own before long...perhaps a few sparring sessions so you can get a taste of how to move in real combat. A few nights a week, since I expect you left it this late for a reason.”

Evelyn weighed up the matter. It was a tempting offer. The biggest hurdle in her attempt to train herself had been that she was never entirely sure that what she was doing was right. This would nullify that entirely. She had the opportunity here to be taught by a real professional. Such an opportunity was not one she could afford to turn down - not due to her own pride, and especially not now that she had the responsibility of being the Herald weighing on her shoulders. There was more at stake than just her life and her own safety. 

“All right,” she nodded eventually “Just…”

Cullen waited patiently for her condition. She felt bad even laying it out, dreading that it might undo all of the progress they’d just made in this one evening. But she had to say it. For her own peace of mind, if nothing else.

“...If we do spar,” she said slowly “I’d rather you didn’t smite me.” 

It was something she could tolerate in the field, in a real fight. She had little say in the matter, anyway. What could she do, approach rogue Templars and say “ _I know we’re about to engage in a fight to the death, but could you please refrain from smiting me? It’s rather unpleasant_ ”. If she couldn’t deal with it in the field without falling to pieces, that would be all the more reason to practise dealing with it. No doubt Cassandra would force her to, had such a weakness presented itself. But it didn’t, so Cassandra wouldn’t, and Evelyn shouldn’t have to endure it anymore than strictly necessary.

If she expected Cullen to take deep and personal offence to the request, she’d have been entirely wrong. In fact, the most negative part of his reaction was just a certain kind of solemnity that flitted across his features before determination replaced it and he nodded.

“You have my word, Hera-  _ Evelyn _ .”

For the first time in a long time, Evelyn smiled - a true and proper smile - at a Templar. She even found herself mentally correcting the thought as it crossed her mind.  _ Ex-Templar.  _ He left the Order. Maybe that did mean something after all.

“Thank you, Cullen. Send word of what nights work best for you?”

“You can count on it.”

The sincerity in his voice made her wonder if he didn’t mean she could count on  _ him.  _ More interestingly, she realised that she didn’t disbelieve it. 


	3. Attraction

The attraction followed cordiality with a swiftness that Cullen would never admit to. One moment he was congratulating himself on his handling of the situation, all but basking in the lack of any awkward atmosphere, and then...well, then he was noticing that Evelyn Trevelyan was actually rather beautiful as he rattled off details on the state of the soldiers. 

He’d noticed it before, her fairness, the first time she’d cleaned up after the explosion at the conclave. Mostly because he hadn’t recognised her at first, without the horror and the blood coating her. She’d entered the Chantry for the war council, freshly washed and in clothes that actually fit, and Cullen had only realised who she was because of the glowing mark on her hand. That was a bit of a dead giveaway. Forming any actual opinion on her looks and what they might mean to him, though, was abandoned in favour of covering up for the fact that he’d first thought she was a runner, coming with word that one of the other advisers would be late. In any case, he’d been certain she’d hated him back then. 

But now that a tentative sort of peace had settled between the two of them, he was free to notice it. And he wished he never had. It was because she looked at him now - properly looked at him, in more than fleeting glances - he was sure of it, because it was her eyes that he noticed first. Great green orbs that glimmered with every look as if she was sharing some private joke with him but wasn’t quite allowed to laugh, framed with long dark lashes. Until that gaze turned confused, and he realised he’d trailed off.

“Er...my apologies,” he shook his head, feeling a flush slowly working its way up his neck.

Maker, what was he? A teenager? 

“Are you alright?” 

“Fine - I-...” he sighed “A headache. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

And she bought it, brow furrowing and eyes filling with sympathy - even if the smirk Leliana didn’t bother to hide suggested that not everybody present did. Luckily, their spymaster wiped the amusement from her face by the time Evelyn glanced her way again. Cullen dragged himself through the rest of his report on the state of the troops while keeping his eyes entirely trained on the papers in his hands. 

A short-term solution, but one that would have to do for now. Dealing with the urge that already bubbled up to look her way again, just to see whether she really was  _ that  _ beautiful or if some kind of strange momentary madness had overcome him was something that he suspected would not be solved so easily. 

* * *

Cullen was handsome. It was just a fact. The sky was blue (or, well, green - as the case may be), the snow was white, and Cullen Rutherford was a good looking son of a bitch. It wasn’t the sort of good looking that was up for debate, or subjective - like how some liked their men wiry and intelligent like Solas, or grizzled and battle-hardened like Blackwall or the Iron Bull. No, Evelyn was absolutely certain that by  _ anybody’s _ standards, Cullen was attractive. Maybe even devastatingly so. Anybody could see it, whether or not they were actually attracted  _ to  _ him, the same way Evelyn could say that Leliana was beautiful despite not being that way inclined towards women. 

It was something she’d noticed without even fully noticing it when she first saw him. In fact, if her memory served her, she’d even rolled her eyes over it. The problem was...now she was unable to fully stop noticing it. In the beginning, it was the same way one noticed other things - noting without making much of a judgement on the matter. But as time went on and she got to know the strength of his character just as well as she knew the face it bore, her subjectivity began to melt away. Oh, how she missed it. Back in the days before, during her confinement in the Circle, she couldn’t count the amount of times she’d internally scoffed whenever a gaggle of girls huddled together to whisper animatedly about the new Templar who had just been stationed there. It was always obvious which ones that they whispered about, too - blond, muscular, tall. The ones who could easily serve as a model for the depictions of King Alistair on the cover of the novels inspired by how he met his queen, back when they were both simple Wardens. 

Evelyn had always prided herself in not being stupid enough to flirt with the Templars. There were some who’d branded her a goody two-shoes for heeding the older mages warnings about fraternising to the letter, but she’d take the teasing over a brand of tranquillity any day. That wasn’t to say that there hadn’t been one or two who she found attractive, though, she was just never tempted to act on it. But the ones that caught her eye were never like Cullen. If anything, they were more like Blackwall - tall, dark, significantly older, with a bit of roughness about them. Whenever a typically handsome one joined the fold and a friend asked her opinion on him, she’d shrug and say an off-handed “He’s  _ too  _ pretty. It’s boring.”. 

So how was it that she now caught herself struggling to tear her eyes from him more and more? At first it started during their training sessions, and she convinced herself it was nothing but practicality-driven. She could hardly fight him without looking at him. What was she supposed to do, pretend to find the snow fascinating while he instructed her? Block blows that she wasn’t watching for? She had to look at him. Maybe that was where the trouble had started. That was when she’d noticed the truly unique honey colour of his eyes, warm even in the cold moonlight. Or just how dazzling his smile of approval was when she pulled off a last minute manoeuvre, usually followed by a huff of breathless laughter before he lunged again. 

Perhaps it was the change in apparel. He always took his armour off to train with her, she noticed. She wasn’t even sure why - it couldn’t have been for ease of movement, for he seemed to have mastered the adjustment to its weight and how it might impede him, until it was clearly no longer even a factor for him when he fought. It made senseless - it was pointless to own a set of armour that he could not adequately fight in. Maybe it was just a relief to take it off at the end of the day, she supposed. After all, she shed her own leathers in favour of clothes that might make her sweat less. Out in the field she’d had enough of peeling off sweaty leathers for an absolute lifetime, it would come as little surprise to find out Cullen felt the same way about his armour. Even if he did a much better job of hiding it. 

There was something about the absence of all of that steel that further distanced him still from the label of ‘Templar’ in her mind, and had her noticing who he was rather than what he once had been. There was just something about him that she couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t the muscles, or the handsome face, or even those damned eyes that captivated her much more than she’d ever admit out loud. She wouldn’t give a toss about any of that, if not for the other thing that she had yet to put her finger on. Was it a spark? Maker, how she’d always hated that phrase. But there was undeniably something between the two of them. It was there in the shared looks across the war table, in the shy half-smiles he sent her way when she passed his tent (which was more often, now that she no longer felt compelled to keep twenty feet of distance between them at all times), and in the way he never failed to help her off her arse and hand her a water skein at the end of each training session. 

Ugh. The Maker was mocking her, she was sure of it. 


	4. Injuries

The first time Evelyn was injured, the reality of their situation - or, more specifically her situation, and the likelihood of her surviving all of this - truly hit Cullen. He’d never considered himself naive. He wasn’t naive. How could he be, after everything he’d seen and lived through? No, he liked to think he dwelled somewhere between pessimism and realism, straying towards one or the other depending on his mood and how badly the withdrawals were plaguing him on that particular day. So why did seeing her return from the Hinterlands with her arm in a sling, and a bandage plastered along the side of her jaw hit him like a punch to the gut? 

The Inquisition was barely in its infancy, and he’d already seen their people injured far worse than this. Maker, how many had died already? Seeing this should be no different from seeing a bruise or a scraped knee, given the situations she was being thrown into headfirst. Even she didn’t seem much affected by it, greeting him with a wave (using her good arm) and a smile before returning to her conversation with Varric as she continued on toward the gates. 

The report came to him later that day - a bear. Multiple bears, actually, but one singular bear had caused the injuries he’d seen; a broken collarbone and a slash to the face. As if the demons, rogue Templars, and apostates weren’t enough, now they were facing off against the wildlife too. The collarbone was being steadily mended by Solas every day, an explanation had been provided as to why it couldn’t all be done at once, but frankly it had gone right over Cullen’s head. At this point, the sling was little more than a precaution. Her face mightn’t even scar, if Josephine’s mutterings about ordering a specific salve from Val Royeaux was anything to go by. It seemed a frivolous thing, but she and Leliana maintained that it spoiled the impact of the Herald somewhat if it was clear she could bleed and scar like any other. Cullen disagreed. In fact, it was her ability to be injured and hurt followed by her absolute lack of reluctance to jump back into the same situations time and time again that had him marvelling at her. There was never even any trace of dread in her face as she headed out into the next impossible mess that had been dropped into her lap.

All right, it could be argued that the situations were foisted onto all of them, and they all responded as uncomplainingly as she, but she was the one with the glowing hand. They created the plans, she enacted them. Yes, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric also did so, but their lives had hardly been quiet before all of this. Cassandra was a Seeker, Varric was tied up in that whole mess back in Kirkwall and Solas...well, he didn’t know about Solas. The elf was a closed book - rather deliberately so, he suspected. But it was clear he’d seen enough. Even if it was only in the fade. Evelyn had spent her life in the Circle for a very long time before the world fell apart. No matter how ardent her support for the mage rebellion might have been, it could never have been enough to prepare her for this. And yet she acted like it was just another day. Cullen respected her for it, but he worried for her. 

How long until the broken collarbone became a shattered knee? Or a limb lost entirely? How long until the deep cuts became severed arteries? Cullen feared it would be sooner than he thought. He made a note to have Adan send a package of elfroot teas and salves to her cabin. It would have to do until Josephine’s more high-end solutions appeared, and hopefully it might help to show her that somebody saw her efforts, and that they cared. Even if he had yet to quite work up the courage to do it without making sure to remain anonymous.

* * *

  
Evelyn wasn’t aware that Cullen had been injured in the attack on Haven until a few hours after she’d awoken in the middle of the Frostbacks, having been saved from the fate of hypothermia by the man himself. She could hardly be blamed for assuming he’d been entirely unscathed, given how he’d lifted her out of the snow like she weighed nothing at all and carried her back towards camp before she finally allowed herself to lose consciousness. 

After she awoke and proved to the healers that her injuries required remedies no more serious than disinfectant and a heavy blanket or two, she finally managed to get out of the tent they’d assigned her (it felt hopelessly selfish to have an entire tent to herself, regardless of how small it was, but her advisers felt it would be more detrimental for the people to see their supposedly newly-immortal Herald injured and unconscious in her cot), staggering towards the desk where Cullen, Josephine, Leliana and Cassandra had gathered to work out their next move. It was not going well. 

Mother Giselle had strongly discouraged her from getting involved in the more heated part of the “discussion”, insisting that another angry, tired, or fearful voice would do no good, and in truth Evelyn agreed - not least because she was too bone-tired and sore to argue strategy now. She was too busy being steeped in disbelief that she yet lived. But while she mightn’t be any help during the discussions themselves, she had to know what was going on. Leliana and Josephine had moved off to one side, talking only occasionally in quiet murmurs. Interrupting would feel too much like intruding. Cassandra was alone, having moved to one of the more deserted fires, her arms cross and face twisted into a scowl. Approaching her now would be as wise as trying to take a bone from a starving dog. That left Cullen. 

He hardly appeared amused himself, his shoulders squared tensely and his jaw ticking as he clenched it. But...he seemed the least likely to lash out at her. She refused to contemplate the absurdity that she’d found a day where out of the group of her new friends, acquaintances, and colleagues, she was most comfortable approaching the pissed off ex-Templar out of any of the lot. These were strange times indeed. 

As she approached she made sure to make a lot of noise to give her presence away - a cough or two, heavier footsteps than usual. Comfortable around him or no, catching any warrior in their current situation off-guard was just asking for trouble. With his battle prowess, he didn’t need the sword that was well on its way to being her own height to be dangerous, but it certainly helped and she had no desire to find it driven through her. That would rather spoil her newfound facade of immortality. 

Cullen turned slightly as he heard her approach, and she saw what had occupied him - a nasty looking burn covering a good chunk of his right hand around the base of his thumb and the back of his hand. 

“Are you alright?” Her eyes widened immediately as she moved towards him.

Her muscles were still stiff and tired, so the movement wasn’t quite as graceful as she’d hoped it would be, but she had larger concerns.

“I think you’re the last person who should be worrying about the scrapes and bruises of others at the moment,” he gave a tired, humourless attempt at a laugh.

“And yet here I am, worrying. What happened?”

“A piece of burning debris, after the dragon turned off. Burned right through the glove and almost seared what remained of it into the skin,” he grumbled, prodding at the angry red flesh as if it was little more than a papercut “It’ll be fine.”

It was an unwelcome sight, their Commander injured. A jarring one, at that. It shouldn’t have been - she’d seen almost as much of her own blood, and that of her travelling companions’, as she had of her enemies. They were long past the days of making a big song and dance over every cut and scrape. It had been an adjustment, to be sure. Blood was an unwelcome sight in the Circle. Blood could lead to accusations of blood magic. Even the papercuts were quickly tended and hidden, lest any particularly paranoid or malevolent Templars jump to conclusions. Nowadays it was a good day if she didn’t end it with at least one cut, scrape, or bruise, and those were just the bread and butter of her new life. Broken bones, concussions, and Andraste only knew what else were sure to be in store in the coming months. Solas’ healing capabilities would certainly be challenged, that much was certain. 

But she had grown used to seeing the people she travelled with injured. She didn’t enjoy it, and she couldn’t shrug it off quite in the same way she shrugged off her own injuries, but it was a reality she’d adapted to. The camps were well stocked with healing potions and salves, and she was working on her own capabilities when it came to healing. It had never been her forte, but neither was saving the world from evil madmen - her abilities had to adapt as Thedas demanded they did. What was it the Orlesians said? C’est la vie. 

Somehow, though, seeing Cullen injured didn’t quite fall into that same mental category. Not just because of her burgeoning crush on him; she’d feel just as jarred if she saw Leliana or Josephine with such injuries, however mild. It was foolish of her. Naive, too. Cullen was a seasoned veteran. He’d seen things that would make her stomach turn. He hadn’t shared details of those things, nor had she pressed for them, but it was obvious. He’d been in Kirkwall, for Andraste’s sake. Burned hands couldn’t measure up to that. 

Leliana had quite possibly seen worse - if such experiences could even be measured up against one another. A former bard, the left hand of the Divine, and a travelling companion to the Hero of Ferelden during the blight. It was likely that she understood what Evelyn’s life consisted of better than any of her fellow advisers. All in all, the only one who it should have surprised her to see injured would be Josephine - and even she likely had a past. All of that logic, though, did nothing to ease her discomfort when looking down at the angry red burn on Cullen’s hand. 

Her brain had separated the outside world and Haven, she supposed. Roaming Ferelden with her travelling companions (a group that had grown considerably as time passed) was firmly in the danger category - with the rifts, the undead, the rogue mages and Templars, and (not least) Alexius and his merry band of psychotic Venatori. Haven, however, and the people she only ever saw there - her advisors, Harritt, Adan, Threnn, and the other villages - was in the ‘safe’ category. The ‘nothing will happen to them so long as I do what I have to’ category. As if danger resided solely out in the field, and couldn’t possibly come to Haven. And how wrong she’d been proven. 

With a sigh, Evelyn dropped her blanket to the table and took a few steps out of the tent. The freezing midnight mountain air flooded her body immediately, finding any small gap in her clothing - the cuffs of her sleeves, the collar of her shirt - and crawling beneath it. But Evelyn didn’t care. It reminded her that she was alive. Gathering a handful of dazzling white, clean, untouched snow and cupping it in her hands, she moved as swiftly as her legs would allow back to Cullen…whose eyes were following her like he was certain she’d lost her marbles. 

“Here, put it in this.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Cullen,” she gave him a look that she very much hoped suggested she wasn’t to be argued with “Let me help you.”

Something in her words, or maybe just her face, seemed to melt away the gruffness he had cloaked himself in, and suddenly he looked ten times more exhausted. Giving a small sigh, he turned his hand so the burn face downward, and carefully lowered it into her snow-filled hands. Her gloves were still drying with the rest of her armor, so the snow soon made her hands ache with the cold, but she endured it. 

“Why didn’t you see a healer?”

“They had more important matters to attend to,” he shook his head “It’s a mere burn, Herald, I’ve survived worse.”

She was sure that he had. Not even a twitch of his brow had indicated his discomfort as the snow made contact with the burn. 

“And so have you,” he added softly. 

Evelyn made a face. What could she say? That what she’d faced so far was no trouble? Such a thing was hardly true. That there wasn’t much risk? Another lie. That she hadn’t been terrified? That had too much of a taste of bravado than of modesty. She would not insult him with bravado and false fronts. Not after what they’d just survived. 

“And yet here we stand,” she said quietly instead. 

“Here we stand,” he echoed.

His tone was almost rueful. Did he believe as the rest did that this latest disaster was proof that she was Andraste’s chosen? Evelyn wasn’t sure what she hoped he would believe. His belief in the Maker was important to him, she knew that, and it was a belief she shared in. There were even times, back in the Circle, when she’d be struck with the strange sensation that she was meant for something more in this world. But how many other had that same feeling? She always shrugged it off as a desire for freedom - for adventure, for more. Adventure, she had been granted. Freedom too, to a certain extent. Okay, she couldn’t go where she pleased as she pleased, but what she had now was a far sight more than she’d ever had in the past. It was difficult to tell if her new title as Herald, and her survival of what had come to pass so far, was confirmation of that strange feeling she’d had for all those years, or if anybody who’d had her misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time would convince themselves so. 

All in all, she wasn’t even sure if she believed she was the Herald. Surely if she was, Andraste would send her more signs than a glowing hand. Some form of reassurance. Guidance. Instead, she received nothing. Nothing but demons and fire and death. She almost wished she could see what the others saw - what had them singing and begging for her blessing, as though she had any right to bestow such a thing. Cullen had joined in their song, she’d heard him - his voice rich and pleasant, standing out just as much as Leliana’s melodic tones. But did that mean he believed?

It was a dilemma. On one hand, his belief would mean a lot to her. He was logical, with both feet planted firmly on the ground. If he believed her the Herald, she might feel just a touch less delusional should she believe it too. But then…no man wanted to touch a deity. Deities and symbols of worship were to be revered and bowed to, especially to devout, honourable men such as Cullen Rutherford - not kissed, lusted after, nor even held. The last thing she wanted Cullen to believe was that he’d somehow sully her with his touch. They’d been flirting with one another steadily over the last few months. Nothing serious or concrete - looks, smiles, jokes, teasing, carefully chosen words. It was a spark, not a flame. But what a spark it was. She would very much hate for the avalanche to have snuffed it out. 

It had been a long day, and an even longer night, so it was of little surprise to her when she realised that she hadn’t bothered to mask the troubled look as it crossed her face, matching her thoughts rather well. It didn’t bother her much though - they all had more than enough cause to be troubled. A frown would hardly draw many questions considering their current position, stranded and wounded in the middle of the Frostbacks. What did surprise her, though, was Cullen’s response. When she glanced up from their hands to find him staring at her face, brow furrowed in worry. 

It could’ve been the surprise at his open concern, the weariness from her close brush with death, or even just her desire not to waste the life she’d been granted - the one that had so very nearly been yanked from her - but for once, Evelyn let her mask drop, and vulnerability show. It wasn’t something she could do around many others, but she would around Cullen. She could practically feel her eyes filling with the same uncertainty that she was drowning in on the inside, and dearly hoped that such a slip wouldn’t drive him to lose confidence in her. 

Wasn’t she supposed to be infallible? Resilient? Unshakeable? Maybe showing this had been a mistake. Maybe dropping the mask was only proving to him that she wasn’t up to the task that this Corypheus had just launched their way. But before the regret could have the Herald mask falling back into place, the irritation that had set up camp on Cullen’s brow all night faded, and his features softened. Raising his other, uninjured hand below her own two, he pressed it face-up gently into the back of her hands. At first she thought he was just encouraging her to press the snow more tightly to his other hand, but then the calloused thumb rubbed softly back and forth across her ice-cold knuckles. They stayed there like that for a few moments, her hands so small and pale compared to his own, the snow between them melting quickly - and once it did, he turned the other hand to face palm-down so he clasped both of hers in his own. But the camp was full of eyes, and there were other matters to attend to, as Solas reminded her by approaching quietly and giving a soft cough.

They dropped their hands then, shaking them free of the melted snow, and Evelyn parted ways with the Commander with a nod and a meaningful look. As she followed Solas to a quiet area of the camp to listen to what he had to say, she couldn’t help but run her own fingertips over the patch of skin where Cullen’s thumb had dwelled. The feeling of his hands clasping her own lingered long after the cold set into them once again. 


End file.
